


The Last Poem of Jean Prouvaire

by getoffmybarricade



Category: Les Miserables
Genre: Barricades, Cannon Era, Jehan deserved so much better, angst i think, but it’s very short can that be classed as angst?, idk I can’t tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:41:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25869088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmybarricade/pseuds/getoffmybarricade
Summary: Jean Prouvaire has never been afraid in his life.He’s never been afraid to die, and he isn’t now
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	The Last Poem of Jean Prouvaire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A_Butter_Churner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Butter_Churner/gifts).



> this is, again, for @A_butter_churner because   
> 1\. I’m in love with their work (it’s amazing)  
> 2\. I really wanted to gift something to you

Jean Prouvaire has never been afraid in his life. 

In his eyes, life is a poem. He knows it doesn’t make sense and won’t rhyme or fall perfectly into place at his will, but he believes that everything happens for a reason. Which is why he doesn’t fear the what he doesn’t know.

And he’s always let the wind blow him in the direction it felt it needed to, taking it in his stride and letting each verse of his life fall into poetry in his notebook. He knows that ultimately life runs nowhere and everyone is greeted with death, some sooner than others, but he’s never been afraid to die. 

Even now, he does not fear it. 

His wrists are bound and tied to a wooden beam, cutting into him like daggers and there is a blindfold tied roughly around his eyes, successfully disarming him of one of his most important senses. The stench of gunpowder and dried blood fills his nostrils and he suspects the blood was his own. 

He does not expect to see the next sunrise. He doesnnot expect to be able to paint the colours of the world as they streak the sky in the early hours of the morning, nor does he expect there to be any more poetry to fill the few blank pages he has left. He would say his last goodbyes now, should his friends have been with him. But, of course, they aren’t. 

No. They are over the other side of the barricade, awaiting death by the same hands that will surely take his own in just a few moments. They will hear him, he thinks sadly, if he were to shout they will hear his voice. Which can only mean they will hear the bullet that will silence it. 

And Jehan is not a faithless person, nor is he the type to abandon any sort of hope, but he knows this was the end. If his life were truly important he would ask himself;  _do I live or die_?  But he knows those answers lay far from this world. And in any case, he has nowhere to run. He has nowhere to hide. 

And, he realises, he does not care. 

Tomorrow will start without him, sure. But it will start without his friends too. Without Enjolras and his fiery eyes. Without Courfeyrac and his cheery laugh. But that does not mean the world will forget about them. He may not be here to see the world they could create but when it comes, they will know. Whether that would be tomorrow or in the next lifetime. 

“Do you surrender?” 

The voice comes from directly in front of him and he hears the shift of a pistol. He tries not to let his breathing hitch. 

He shakes his head. 

“Last words.” 

There are so many things he could say; he could shout for his friends, tell them goodbye, or he could bite out a cold response to the National Guards. But none of it means anything. None of it would be remembered. 

He’s never been afraid to die, and he isn’t now, but he will not go down without the fight still pulsing through him. He knows the nineteen years he’s lived have been stranger and shorter than most can imagine; a blur of words painted by artists and songs sung into the night by revolutionaries who dreamed of a new world. Of riotousness, freedom and peace and of disbelief, friendship and sorrow. Words of uprising that can only be matched by the light schoolboys carry in their eyes and wine on the lips of cynics. 

What has his life told him? What has it shown him? 

He can string the fullest of words into a spiral of golden promises in the way only a poet can, should he be asked to. And yet standing there, his shoulders aching from hauling muskets and bayonets and his eyes prickling with tears at the losses of his friends; he finds only one thing. 

“Long love the revolution.” He whispers, the room so quiet he can hear the beating of his own heart. He raises his head and draws himself up to his fullest height, his voice reaching those across the barricade, 

“Vive la France!” 

Jean Prouvaire had never been afraid in his life. 

**Author's Note:**

> Jehan deserved so much better  
> Also I don’t think he actually was nineteen but I wanted him to be very young   
> I mean I know he was Young anyway...they all were...  
> No. I’m not getting sad over this now   
> Thank you for reading <3


End file.
